Love Kills
by quietandsneaky
Summary: John and Sam argue, again, but this time there's no making up.


**Disclaimer: The characters of Supernatural do not belong to me.**

It was amazing, John thought to himself, how little the "big" stuff meant when the really big stuff came up.

The hospital waiting room was empty, a stark difference from the waiting rooms John had been in before. He'd always complained about full waiting rooms, how they made it impossible to focus. Now that all he had to do was focus, he actually missed it.

The vicious fight he'd had with Sam that day was playing over and over in his head. It had started like every other fight they'd ever had. Sam wanted to do something that John deemed a distraction. What exactly it was, John didn't remember now. Because, as Sam had pointed out in the fight, he hadn't been listening. But John had deemed training more important that day than anything else. Just like every other day. Now, if it meant that Sam would come back, he'd let him have anything and everything he wanted.

" _Please, Dad, just this once, let me do what I want on a Friday night!"_

" _I said no, Sam!"_

 _"You always say no!"_

And on and on. What the hell had happened this time? Sam had come home from school in a good mood. But just when John had mentioned training, things had turned. Sam started begging to go to something that night, but John had already planned their training for that day, so of course he'd said no. Then came the moment that John would regret for the rest of his life.

" _Dad, please, I will do twice the training tomorrow, just let me do this…"_

" _Damn it, Sam! NO!"_

The line that Sam had thrown many times before.

" _I HATE YOU!"_

The line that John had never thrown before, and wished he could still say now that that was the case.

" _Well maybe I hate you too!"_

But instead of realizing what he'd said, backtracking and apologizing, trying to explain to Sam, yet again, that they needed to train because another hunt was coming up and he needed to be ready, John had made a mistake. A careless mistake that, if Sam had done it, John would never have let him live it down. He'd slammed his hand hard on the table to try and stop the fight.

Right next to the shotgun that was still on the table. With the safety off.

The blast had been deafening. John had wondered for a minute where it came from, until he saw Dean running into the kitchen. He heard Dean scream, and that's when he saw it. The blood. The blood streaking down the cabinets Sam had been standing in front of just a few seconds earlier. The smell of gunpowder in the air. Dean was kneeling in front of Sam, begging him to stay awake and stay with him. The pieces were still there, but it took a frighteningly long time for John to put them together.

He had just shot Sam.

It had been Dean to call the ambulance, and Dean to tell his father to get his ass in gear so they could get to the hospital. Dean to tell the doctors that his little brother had been accidentally shot while their father was cleaning the shotgun. Dean to ask him, over and over, what had happened. John had finally told him the story, and surprisingly, Dean hadn't yelled at him. He hadn't told him that he'd been irresponsible, that it was his fault his beloved Sammy was hurt.

And somehow, someway, that was even worse.

Sam had been in surgery for hours. The doctors had come in a couple of times to update John and Dean on his condition, but things weren't looking up. The only thing John could focus on was the last words he'd said to Sam.

 _Maybe I hate you too._

He'd seen it. The brief flash of hurt and anguish that appeared in Sam's eyes when he'd said that. John wasn't an idiot. He knew Sam believed that John didn't care about him. That John didn't want him to be happy, to have a good life. No matter how many times John had tried to explain it, nothing was further from the truth. But he had to keep Sam safe. Without Sam, life was worth nothing. He'd have no reason at all to keep going. And neither would Dean.

No Sam meant no Dean. No Sam or Dean meant no John. Sam was the foundation of the entire Winchester family.

But, as he thought about it, John realized he'd given Sam no reason to feel that way. Sam had, after all, offered to do his Friday and Saturday training together. Whatever was going to happen that night, it was obviously important to him. And it was obviously something that John had either allowed Dean to do in the past or something he'd allowed Sam to do in the past, which meant that, in the long run, it wasn't really that dangerous. If it had been something stupid, Sam wouldn't have bothered asking. So he'd screamed those terrible, vicious, hurtful words to his little boy, who was quickly growing into a man, because he just wanted to prove that he was the almighty Dad and he was in charge.

 _Yep, you're in charge for sure. And Sam's dying because of it. If you'd just stopped being such a stubborn damn idiot for two minutes, Sam would be on some date or at a sleepover or some museum right now instead of lying on an operating table with a bullet-your bullet-inside him._

"Dad?"

John jumped. Dean stood there with a cup of coffee in his hand.

"I thought you could use this."

"Thanks, Ace." John said. He took the cup from Dean and took his first sip. When Dean was seated, John asked, "Dean, you know I…"

"Dad, I know you didn't do this on purpose." Dean said.

John sighed. "Why are you being so cool about this?"

"Honestly? Just because you didn't do it on purpose doesn't make it not your fault, Dad. I'm still pissed. But I'm hoping that this makes you realize that you need to loosen the grip on Sam a little."

John shook his head. "He just made me…"

"Made you mad? Like you made him? Think about this, Dad. If the positions had been reversed, and Sam had been at the table cleaning the guns and he accidentally shot you, would you have just let it go?"

John was shocked to silence.

"No. You would have screamed at him the second you got out of surgery and you wouldn't have stopped. He'd be making this up to you until he turned eighteen. Because both of you don't see how much the other one cares about you. Just like Sam doesn't see you in here right now, worried to death and feeling guilty as hell about him, you wouldn't see that with him. You'd just be angry and pissed off and keep going until you both made each other miserable."

"You're right." John said quietly. After a few more seconds, John asked, "Dean? Do you know what Sam wanted to do tonight?"

"Yeah. He wanted to go on a date. One he asked you about a week ago and you told him he could go already."

"What?" John asked.

He didn't remember telling Sam he could go on any date. Then it came to him. Sam coming home from school on Monday, asking and begging John about something, something to do with a girl. John had said yes to get Sam to shut up and leave him alone. He'd remembered the smile Sam had given him, and how he'd been in a good mood the whole rest of the week. How eager he'd been to go out that night.

"I didn't know. I wasn't listening."

"And that's part of the problem." Dean said. "But maybe now you've learned your lesson."

He had. He had come close to losing Sam that day, and he was determined to make it up to him. No matter the cost. All Sam had to do was make it through surgery. The thought that the last words his baby boy would hear from him was _I hate you_ made him wish that he could break all his ribs himself. It would be less painful. _Please, Mary, bring him back to us. Let me make this right._

Two hours later, a doctor came into the waiting room. Bobby had made it to the hospital, as had Caleb and Pastor Jim. John recognized him immediately from the surgical team. His scrubs were covered in blood and he didn't look happy. John hoped-no, prayed, something he hadn't done in, well, ever-that it just meant the doctor was tired and that Sam was okay.

"Sam Jackson?"

"That's us." Dean was the first to speak and the first to get up. "How's my brother?"

"Can we talk outside?" the doctor asked.

"Everyone in this room's family, doctor." John said, his heart clenching in fear. "Where's my son?"

The doctor took a long, pitying look at the older, haggard man in the room. He hated this part of his job more than anything else. "I'm sorry. Sam's internal injuries were too massive. He flatlined forty-five minutes ago. We tried to revive him. He died, Mr. Jackson."

And just like that, John Winchester realized a universal truth. Love can kill. Because his son was dead, and had died believing that his father hated him. The words he wanted to scream now would make absolutely no difference.

 _I love you, son._


End file.
